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He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and

all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking,

doors banging. "But why, why, and how could it be?" he repeated,

thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too

distinctly! And they would come to him then next, "for no

doubt... it's all about that... about yesterday.... Good God!" He

would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not

lift his hand... besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his

heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him.... But at last all

this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually

to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya

Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at last

he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. "Can

he have gone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the landlady is going

too, still weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed....